Maniacal
by freeflymore
Summary: "Her eyes, they flashed a quick, erratic red: maniacal."


Sarah did not know what to get Tommy for the holidays. Last year, he was her Secret Santa and she was in the same predicament. She had eventually decided to get him a pair of rather warm, fuzzy socks that he was sure to appreciate when the weather was too cold for snow. Despite her effort to pick the perfect pair, Tommy had ridiculed his anonymous Santa for getting him a pair of "dumb, old socks" of which he tossed into the trash on his way out the door at the end of the day. Somehow, by some wicked twist of fate, she was, again, his Secret Santa. This year, he was always cavorting around with the other boys and she had to get him something that would make him notice her. He had all the attention of the other girls, as well as the boys, in the class and she had to give him something that would make him wonder which face was hidden behind the anonymity. Yet, as she passed by the local we-have-everything store, nothing was flashy enough, cool enough, sparkly enough to be Tommy-worthy.

It wasn't until she reached the last aisle did something catch her eye. By some lucky angle of sunlight shining through the transparent windows of the shop, a glittering reflection momentarily blinded Sarah. Edging closer, fluttering her eyes to clear her vision of the spots that appeared from the glaring light, she looked up to see the last of the bouncy balls in stock. The flash of light that had diverted her from her original path was sitting there, seductively enticing her from its spot on the shelf. Cautiously, she reached out her hand and lightly touched it before suddenly jerking her arm back, as if burned by the shiny rubber. Hissing, she blushed at her own weakness. There was something about this ball; it was so attractive, yet so damaging to the touch. Her hypersensitive fingertips could not stand the warmth the reflective light created, so she pulled down her shirtsleeve and covered her hand with it. Tentatively picking up the ball with only the thin layer of cotton between her skin and the burning object, she examined it.

It looked like any other bouncy ball she'd ever seen. There was nothing new to it; nothing different. And yet, there was; something within the reflective flecks of silver and red. Something within her soul called out to it while her physical being recoiled at the touch. Only when Sarah realized that she was holding the ball mere inches from her face did she take an shaky breath. Opening her other hand, she nearly placed the ball in her open, bare palm. Even from the slightest contact, she could feel the scalding sensation, the heat emanating from the surface of the rubber. Forcibly closing her eyes until it began to hurt, she released the ball into her palm. It was like nothing she had felt before. A prick, then a stab shot through her hand where the ball had dropped; the repercussions trembled along her arm before it spun throughout the rest of her body. Frozen to the spot, she cried out; the ball slowly rolling out of her open hand and down. Down, down, down it fell until it touched the floor where it bounced once, twice, thrice, and then out of sight. She couldn't move, she couldn't speak.

"Excuse me, miss?" a voice broke through the tension. Her sensitive ears rang from the sound; she shrank from the speaker. The worker's face held a look of astonishment mixed with fear when she turned to face him. Fear and apprehension. Something on Sarah's face made the worker take a step back. The way the corner of her mouth curled into a snarl, as if protecting something sacred; her stance, not straight or slumped like most kids', it was more hunched and she seemed to brace herself, as if expecting an attack; her eyes, they flashed a quick, erratic red: maniacal. "D-did you need something?" the worker forced out of his mouth. The sides of his throat growing raw from the effort, his lips drying from the short question.

"No," the girl answered stonily. "I just checked my watch and realized that my mother is probably wondering where I am," she lied, for she had neither watch nor mother. As soon as politely possible, the worker quickly turned on his heel and scurried in the opposite direction, hoping to get as far away from the girl as possible. Quick to forget her fear of the ball, she was eager to return to her examination and skipped down the aisle in pursuit of it. Easily spotting it at the end of the aisle, she swept it up in her covered hands, careful to not allow it to touch her skin. She peered around: no one in sight. She slipped the ball into her jacket pocket and walked out of the shop, humming one of the many familiar Christmas carols to herself.

That evening, she was careful to keep the ball out of her fathers' sight. There was nothing worse in their house than stealing. They knew that she had gone to the shop to look for gifts, but they had not given her money for a gift, so the shiny object would have set off unwanted alarms and would have to remain in her pocket. Throughout the dinner, she could feel the rubber burning, the heat coursing through her thick jacket, overheating her, causing her to excuse herself early, earning a questioning look from her parents. Ignoring them, she knew they wouldn't pursue something they knew she didn't want to share, and continued her journey to her bedroom. Taking her jacket off, she dumped the ball out of her pocket and onto the comforter. She glanced at the rubber sphere adoringly before turning to face the rest of her room and began to frantically search for the perfect, little, black, velvet drawstring pouch. She picked up the ball lightly between her thumb and forefinger. The pain that had, an hour ago, been unbearable was now marginally tolerable. Bringing it to her lips, she kissed the ball, the scorching sensation singed her lips; she relished in the sensation. The pain began to mingle with the pleasure of satisfaction; she was overcoming the pain. The more she touched it, the less it affected her. With this knowledge, she threw off her shirt and pulled off her pants. She took the ball in her hands, rolled it over her skin; sparks of fire ran a trail down her skin where the ball had just been. Just before she fell asleep, Sarah took the ball, and before placing it in the pouch, gave it one last kiss. _Red_, she mused, _Tommy's favorite color_.

Every day after that, the ball was left forgotten in its pouch, its heat continuously burning, creating a warm spot upon Sarah's nightstand. Only on the morning of the Secret Santa exchange did she remember the smoldering sphere. Taking the ball out one last time before it became another's, she gazed at it lovingly; the surface now cool to her touch. Placing the pouch, which was now labeled with Tommy's name on it, in the basket with the rest of the classes' presents, she sighed as the velvet left her hands. As the basket was passed around the classroom, she saw that Tommy would be one of the last to receive their presents and spent the whole time worrying whether he would like it. When the gifts reached Tommy, she watched with bated breath as his eyes alighted upon the pouch with his name on it. Pulling the pouch from the other gifts, he opened it, reached in and retrieved the ball. The moment his hand wrapped around the ball, stabs of pain reverberated through Sarah's chest; she gasped in pain. No one noticed. Her eyes watered from the pain, his glistened from pleasure as he rolled the rubber between his fingers, the light from the ball reflecting in his eyes. Inside, her soul was being torn; it was as if a piece of her suddenly disappeared; she couldn't hold herself together. Tommy suddenly jerked his head up and stared directly into her eyes and saw through her, into her soul. He saw her pain, her turmoil; his eyes flashed red. Disgusted, he drew back and stood up and walked to the trash bin.

"Stupid, old bouncy ball," he muttered and Sarah was released. The pain eased, the hurt ebbing into the periphery. When no one was looking, she dove to the trash bin and fetched out the ball.


End file.
